


baby, i'll be bulletproof

by transgenicveins



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M, liam's get together plan is an assault, musical foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgenicveins/pseuds/transgenicveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lou, do you remember when you made it your mission to corrupt Liam? Well I regret <i>all</i> your life decisions."</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby, i'll be bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posting from lj, written in december 2012.

  
The thing is, Zayn’s been arse over tit for Liam since he was sixteen years old and sharing comic books and Happy Meals after their audition, when nothing else mattered as much as shuffling closer to argue over Marvel’s canon.

  


And it starts as ‘ _wow, Liam’s (voice, smile, torso) is flawless’_ and ends somewhere closer to ‘ _I wonder how he sounds after sucking cock and what if he smiles like that during sex and maybe he’d let me lick his come off his abs and push it into his hole dripping with lube’_. Then he _can’t_ stop picturing Liam between his sheets or just _there_ in the crook of his neck.

  


He doesn’t say anything— not after the first show to Liam’s bright eyes or before the Brits when they’re all punch-drunk off champagne or even during their tour, when it’s just the five of them and big stages for eight months— because it’s _Liam_ and he’s _Zayn_ and the world doesn’t work the way it should.

  


So instead of straddling his hips and saying ‘ _hey, not to be satirical but please let me be your last first kiss’_ , he just pines.

  


(quietly)

  


(from a distance)

  


(so Liam doesn’t notice)

  


  


/ / /

  
  


(but there are these moments when he thinks Liam knows. There’s this newfound _heat_ in the twist of his pretty lips and he presses against Zayn with this unerring intensity that he is so incapable of ignoring.

  


He doesn’t comment on it, though, because Liam’s just broken up with Danielle and they weren’t like him and Perrie. They ended with a bang instead of a whimper, with flying plates instead of a ‘ _darling, c’est la vie’_.

  


Instead, Zayn is giving him space. He watches him shave his hair and grow it back and stain his forearms with matching ink and he _waits_.

  


Because there’s a day somewhere when this undeniable tension between them will result in something perfect, and Zayn’s willing to wait for magic if magic means Liam)

  


  


/ / /

  
  


They’re somewhere in Los Angeles for breakfast when Liam presses against the back of his chair and leans over, lips brushing over the nape of his neck. It drives Zayn half crazy and Liam steals his soy latte with a smile that fills his lungs with something too light.

  


He catches the invitation on Liam’s lips before it tumbles out. _Usually_ he’s subtle and a little shy, but today he’s blunt and strong and Zayn falls a little in love with the spark in his eyes.

  


“Bradford,” he says, all soft with fingers circling his wrists while their three best friends tactfully look away, “there’s this exhibit of organic street art at a warehouse just out of the city. I was thinking we could grab Indian tapas and drive over?”

  


It’s painful, it makes his heart _hurt,_ because Liam’s wearing this hopeful grin and offering everything he’s ever wanted and there’s an inherent half of him programmed to say no.

  


Louis is grinning into his juice beside him and Zayn stamps down on his foot while he replies. “Sounds brilliant. The five of us could drive home along the coast.”

  


Liam huffs grumpily into the nape of his neck like he expected the rejection, like Zayn is just a roadblock.

  


The yelp that escapes his lips is a little emasculating and _completely warranted,_ because Liam tightens his grip on his chair and _pulls_ until he can wedge between Zayn’s legs.

  


Liam grins, a little mischievous, and leans down to press their foreheads together. It feels like Zayn’s _surrounded_ by him and his stupid smile and his tight body.

  


“I know what you’re doing,” he says, tightening his grip on the arms of the chair until the tendons in his forearms twitch. Zayn’s throat feels too dry. “And it’s sweet and I adore you for it. But that’s not what I want.”

  


He ignores the three day stubble staining Liam’s jawline and how his jeans cling to his legs and the way his eyes flash gold in the sunlight and focuses on the space between them, instead. “What do you want?”

  


Liam’s hands slip from the chair and grip his hips. He crowds closer, lips brushing against the stud pressed into his ear lobe while his fingers tease under his waistband. “I want to take you apart with my fingers and my tongue and my cock,” he says softly. Zayn short-circuits. “But that’s not happening, today. Today is going to be an assault.”

  


Then – with a sweet blush and blunt fingernails– Liam pulls back and _stares_ until Zayn remembers how to reply. “That sounds,” he starts and beside him, Louis offers a ‘ _painfully orgasmic’_. “Violent.”

  


Liam grins and it’s not the cheeky smile from before. It crinkles his eyes and pinches his cheeks and _wow_ is the only adequate descriptive word when their lips brush together. “Only if that’s what you’re into, darling,” he teases, and Zayn’s a little nervous and a lot turned on and he _just wants to kiss him_.

  


Liam laughs like he knows and steals the rest of his fucking coffee and disappears into the city with a ‘ _prepare your defences, sugar’_ that leaves him wanting.

  


  


/ / /

  
  


He’s nervous and overwhelmed all morning and Liam doesn’t do a damn thing, just dresses in this devastating loose Henley to show off his collarbones and a pair of chinos that Zayn can _not_ look away from. Liam’s all distracting parallels and curves, so it’s no wonder Zayn doesn’t notice the bright red Ferrari outside their hotel complex until he’s behind the steering wheel.

  


“Don’t look so shocked,” Liam teases, fiddling with the roof until it slides all the way back. The sun is hot but not quite as warm the fingers circling his knee. “You know I’m dreadful at driving stick.”

  


Something brilliant and sweet clouds his lungs. Liam leans over, lips pressed to the hollow behind his ear while hands brush up his thighs to tease his zipper.

  


“I swear I’d be better handling _your_ shaft,” he whispers, and Zayn stalls at the next set of lights.

  


“ _Liam,_ ” he scowls. It’s half a yelp and three-quarters a gasp and four-fifths a moan, somehow, all at once. “We’re not even out of the city and – _stop you bastard I can’t drive under these conditions –_ people can see!”

  


Liam’s fingers curl to stroke his cock, once, just rough enough for Zayn’s hips to stutter under the seatbelt. “Is that such a bad thing?” he teases, over-exaggerating his lips until Zayn’s fingers clench the wheel. “I thought you were into exhibitionism.”

  


Zayn swats his hand away and Liam _actually cackles_ as he fiddles with the take-out containers. Every few verses, the hand on his thigh slides to his jaw (catching on his shirt on the way up) and presses until his lips fall open for a mouthful.

  


Everything tastes _so good_ , even the fingers which catch on Zayn’s lower lip and leave a hint of spice and salt on the way out. He _can’t stop_ glancing at Liam between traffic lights or after stop signs or just before an intersection and it’s dangerous but _Liam Payne_ has always been hazardous to his health.

  


Liam catches him staring and smiles in a way that promises Zayn’s not meant to see it. “I can stop,” he reminds, all soft, and his hand hesitates until Zayn nudges back with his thigh, “if you don’t like the assault.”

  


“I like you, more,” he says, staring at the fading city, and Liam makes this happy noise that is lost in the wind.

  


He whispers a ‘ _then tactics and battles can wait’_ and turns up the radio, singing along to Queen and Usher and the Beatles in this euphonic and euphoric voice just for Zayn, and that’s infinitely more disarming than tight clothing and a loose tongue.

  


They’re on the freeway and halfway through singing “ _all we hear is radio gaga”_ at each other when Liam leans over the console. He drags lips through his hair and flicks the indicator for the next exit while Zayn’s distracted by a hint of tongue against the shell of his ear.

  


And he expects Liam to wriggle away and launch into the chorus, but instead he peppers kisses along his jaw, across his cheekbones, down his throat and over his Adam’s apple, until his pulse flutters with each touch.

  


He climbs out the car before Liam can kiss them all the way into the dock. The warehouse is dark and open and he’s so distracted by the _‘be not afraid of greatness’_ stained in moss across the double doors that he doesn’t notice the fingers messily tangling with his own.

  


“Is this okay?” Liam asks, nails scratching against the hawk tattooed to his tendons. In some other universe it would be symbolic and significant, but Liam is nothing if not direct and blunt and so, so _simple_ in this complicated world.     

  


Zayn squeezes back and leaves white fingermarks and half-moons over his knuckles and that’s enough, for Liam, if his sweet smile is anything to judge by.

  


  
/ / /

  
  


They wander around the gallery for hours and walk past each piece half a dozen times because they’re both very, very reluctant to leave – or so they whisper into each other’s necks – and toy with each other’s fingers through the artist’s speeches.

  


Zayn feels lightheaded. He’s falling a little in love, he thinks, as Liam leads him through the gallery and kisses him everywhere but the lips between showcases.

  


He holds onto that feeling longer than he’ll admit and lets it cool his blood and burn him to the bone while they coat their fingers with the growth mixture and scribble on the spare wall. They stretch to hold hands and Zayn needs to compromise and draw with his left but it’s worth it, so worth it, when Liam’s eyes shine in the fluorescent lights.

  


  


/ / /

  
  


(he smears on the batsignal with a subtle Z + L underneath one of the wings and ignores the way he throbs at the memory of Liam in costume last October)

  


  


/ / /

  
  


(and years later he’ll omit this detail from the rest of the world, but on the drive to the stadium they share a slurpee and, afterwards, he presses his lips to Liam’s cheek until it stains a kiss blue)

  


  


/ / /

  
  


They are on _fire_ that night. The crowd is roaring and the music burns into their veins and Liam scorches Zayn’s hips whenever he comes too close.

  


He can’t help it, though. He’s infatuated with the way Liam’s voice slips into a falsetto when he’s near, and the way he whispers _filthy_ things between songs like ‘ _I want to fuck you from behind with those chinos around your ankles’_ , and the way he stutters his hips shamelessly in time with the bass.

  


It makes him remember—

  


(lying on that hotel bed in Sweden for an interview and Liam toying with the fresh ink on the nape of Zayn’s neck, singing their harmonies between questions)

  


and

  


(writing _Last First Kiss_ with Louis and Liam after the Autumn of Break-ups and Liam wrapping his arms around his waist, teaching his fingers how to play the chords, soft breaths staining his neck a pretty pink)

  


and

  


(watching from the booth while Liam tangles his fingers around the mic, grinds reflexively against the thick air, and sighs ‘ _rock me’_ for the third chorus)   

  


—  and then he’s so overwhelmed with _Liam_ that he almost misses his verse.

  


_And so it goes_ for the rest of their set, all the way through Liam’s falsetto in _Changed My Mind_ and infectious smile during _What Makes You Beautiful_ and strong harmonies in their cover of _Uptown Girl_.

  


(the hints of his tanned, flushed skin between the three leave Zayn’s throat dry)

  


It’s nearly midnight and they’re halfway through _I Would_ when Liam disappears from his token centre-right. He presses right up against Zayn’s spine, a heavy hand on his stomach with the other caging his hip.

  


Zayn nudges back, just to adapt to his fingertips, and Liam keeps him aligned with his half-hard cock until his eyes flutter in protest.

  


(Liam’s not that much taller but his shoulders are wide enough to _drape_ his frame over Zayn’s, and his voice hitches on the next _you should know_ when he focuses too hard on that pressure)

  


The gentle sway of hips during the chorus (which Zayn has watched across a stage a thousand times by now) is slowly driving him mad, but not as mad as the grin pressed into his hair or the thumb catching against his waistband. He’s three seconds from muffling the mic in his thigh and whispering _surrender_ when hands sneak over his hips and steal his coherency from the inside out.

  


Liam’s body isn’t cacophonic or unrestrained or any of the billion things it appears – no, it’s measured and controlled. It’s _wild_ , almost, the way he stutters his hips on ‘ _please_ ’ and bites Zayn’s bare neck – in front of the whole world – for _‘kiss’_ and sneaks fingers up his shirt on ‘ _touch’_ only to scrape nails down to his waistband at _‘need’_.

  


(the soft, affirmative noise that escapes after ‘ _love’,_ all desperate and shameless, throws off Zayn’s equilibrium)

  


Liam’s right, because his touches _are_ an assault _._ He thinks the word might be ‘besieged’, because that’s how it feels with the gunshot of a hand on his abs and kissing fingers signing L-O-V-E to the crowd. But he hates the word. So instead of saying something, he misses a few harmonies and lolls his head onto Liam’s shoulders and grinds back.

  


(Liam echoes the last ‘I would’ staring _straight_ at him with this smirk across his lips that promises it’s not serious)

  


He’s waiting for Liam to kiss him sweet with his hard fingertips and soft touch and honey lips twisted into a bubblegum smile. Liam softens a little (looks like he wants to, too) and presses a smile into black hair. He whispers a ‘ _goodnight, Los Angeles’_ into the microphone in Zayn’s slack hand and keeps Zayn caged in his arms all the way backstage.  

  


Liam’s definitely wild now, as he unbuttons Zayn’s shirt from the inside out and starts peppering kisses down his neck once they’re behind the curtain. 

  


“You are _ruthless,_ Liam Payne,” he says, because it feels like it’s burned onto his tongue.

  


He laughs and presses fingertips into the hollow of his cheekbones and kisses him, all soft and playful and undeniably _Liam_. They’re overeager and the kiss makes them a little desperate, until he’s pressing Liam against the wall and nipping at his lips while familiar fingers palm at his cock.

  


Everything else – Louis’ cat calls and Niall’s wolf whistles and the whole array of zoo noises from Harry – is white noise, because he’s kissing Liam in the backstage hallways and that’s all he’s ever wanted.

  


(they’re remarkably the same in every stadium, when this, when _Liam_ , is so beatifically innovative, here, between amps and bottled water)

  


  


/ / /

  
  


(“One last stop,” Liam _swears_ , mouthing at the crook of his neck until their hips find a rhythm so much stronger than the gentle buzz of the engine. The boys are commandeering the tinted windows and Zayn thinks he’ll choke on affection before the end of the night.

  


His words and his logic and his balance and his _limbs_ are a little useless under Liam’s sharp teeth – and the breathless laughs he earns when he keens – so it takes him a kiss or seven to find his voice. “And then what?”

  


Liam huffs against his lips and tickles the skin just under the small of his back until it’s stained with goosebumps. “And then it will be just me and you and foreign sheets and local lube,” he whispers, and Zayn alternates between short-circuiting and moaning into his mouth until they arrive)

  


  


/ / /

  
  


The venue is in the heart of the throbbing city and Liam looks so _alive_ in the neon technicolour. Zayn is infatuated with the sight and can’t help the happy smile or the helpless eyes or kissing his cheek – ‘ _just one more time, I swear, Li’_ – in the darkness of the old theatre entrance.

  


While Liam talks to the bouncer, Harry’s hand, huge and demanding in that way only _Harry fucking Styles_ could isolate in his extremities, tangles in his hair. “I’ve watched you two pine for three fucking years,” he says, just audible over the roar of the crowd and buzz of the amps inside, “and Lou has been making your relationship scrapbook all tour and Niall’s already registered as an officiant so you can proceed in your sordid love trysts with our blessing.”

  


His eyes are glued to the play of Liam’s muscles and he nudges back into the touch mindlessly. “Like you ever wait for my blessing,” he laughs, “you didn’t ask our opinion before that one night with Louis and Grimshaw and the _excess of leather—_ ”

  


He fights off the aborted jab between his ribs half-heartedly. Liam’s grinning like he’s promising trouble and his boyband smile – the one with the uncontrollable squint and bright teeth and stomach muscles sore from clenching too hard with laughter – has never failed to make Zayn’s heart ache.

  


“Paint is the constant of Too Loud Too Silent,” he explains and _oh, right, Damien’s band, the Damien from New York last winter (who made Zayn scowl all evening until Liam asked him to breakfast)._ He’s juggling six different jars of bright paint in his huge hands and Zayn wants to knock them away and kiss him again. “Can you maybe mess me up?”

  


He winks and covers Liam’s furious blush with parallel crescents under his eyelids in all the colours he loves best on his skin.

  


( _white, blue, that one shade of grey and every variation of red)_

  


“That’s for later,” he promises, streaking vertical lines down Liam’s arms in bright purple, a spatter of pink dots along his collarbones, shoving his shirt off to outline a few of his muscles in green and smear a bright blue circle in the centre of his chest.

  


(“ _the arc reactor itself makes Iron Man the most innovative superhero of the new era,” Zayn says, catching Liam’s greasy fingers before they can tug off his audition number, when all he really wants to do is steal his breath)_

  


Liam grins as he swirls an infinite spiral onto his tanned back. There’s all this white noise in the gaps between the colour and Zayn thinks he loves those hints of his skin the best, the scars and tan lines and the thousand things that demand Zayn’s complete attention.

  


A whole silhouette later and Liam tugs off Zayn’s shirt with that desperation he’s absolutely in love with, steals the paint, and presses yellow stained fingertips to his ribs. His hands are soft and something beautiful and _owned_ curls in Zayn’s lungs as that touch decorates his body in dots and stars.

  


His favourite is the Captain America shield sketched in red and white and blue at the base of his spine, and the whispered ‘ _he’s my favourite and you’re mine too’_ , both of which scorch like a promise into his skin.

  


They pull away and fall into the space they created, and Zayn can’t help dipping his finger into the white paint and drawing an L on his own clean collarbone. It’s a little wonky but Liam still stares and steals his free hand and traces a bright red Z across his own hip with Zayn’s fingers.

  


He wants to smear the colour on his lips and kiss Liam all over and mark him up, possessive and pretty, until there are bruises behind the paint. He doesn’t, though, because Liam’s sweet smile makes his heart _ache_ for the seventeen year old boy with sunlight in his eyes and blue dust in the hollows of his body.

  


So instead he presses their bare chests together until some of his paint smudges onto Liam’s skin - _like a brand_ , he thinks, and blushes at the thought – and nudges him backwards into the crowd after the boys until they’re in that heart of the audience they love best.

  


Liam flashes him a smile, only for Zayn, and disappears to the barrier. The band is singing something like ‘ _your eyes are summer and your voice is winter_ ’ but Damien cuts himself off when he sees Liam in the front row.

  


“Boyband!” he laughs, with bright blue eyes and a defined jaw. Zayn stares at Liam’s arms bulging while he’s hoisted onstage. “I had a mic made especially for the possibility of your gorgeous arse on this stage.”

  


He presents Liam with this bright pink headset microphone, so reminiscent of the 1990s, and nudges him offstage with whispered words about costumes and wiring.

  


Liam reappears with pink cheeks and half-lidded eyes and bare feet and his new jeans show off the outline of his cock. He looks a little dazed but complies easy enough when Damien tugs open the button.

  


His fingers tangle in Liam’s waistband and jerk until his eyes roll back (Zayn wants to ignore that) and pull him under the soft lights. “We should sing something a little closer to your genre,” he teases, hot into the curve of Liam’s neck to catch the mic positioned in front of his lips.

  


He sings ‘ _am I original – am I sexual?’_ and does this little twitch of his shoulders and slow, exaggerated body roll Zayn faintly remembers from a reunion tour.

  


Liam laughs and Zayn knocks his forehead into Harry’s shoulder at the breathy echo. “It would be more fun than—” he says, and readjusts, reforms, reorganises his bones and muscles until he’s smiling a little less and curling his spine into something exhausted, “— _oh I want to hate you half as much as I hate myself_.”

  


The crowd sings the next line (and _wow_ , Zayn doesn’t think he’ll ever accustom to music overpowering incoherency) as Liam leans close to whisper in Damien’s ear.

  


Niall, pressed up against his back, laughs something gorgeous into his hair while a riff echoes through the room. “They’re right, hey,” he whispers, “that _does_ look a little sexual.”

  


He groans and squirms beneath Niall’s hands and can’t think of an adequate response because Liam’s singing ‘ _I want to rock your body ‘til the break of day’_ like it’s a promise.

  


They’re grinding onstage with the mic stand pressing identical red marks to their bare chests. Zayn’s nearly jealous, except Liam keeps arching to expose the initial on his hip and mouth ‘ _bet I’ll have you naked by the end of this song’_ right at him, and it scorches something hot all down his spine.

  
The girls pressed right against his chest start clutching at each other in this _very_ familiar way and sighing— 

  


“ _Please_ just fuck already, please, please, please, and let us watch, the sexual tension is painful to watch—”

  


— until Louis is indignant on his behalf.

  


Zayn doesn’t notice, though, because Liam extricates from Damien and starts hitching his hips rhythmically in a way so reminiscent of a few hours ago. He’s constructed of smirks and bedroom eyes and the omnipresent promise of _more_ , and Zayn wants to kiss him stupid.

  


He thinks he can handle _more_ , maybe.

  


( _he’s handled worse – he’s endured sleepy Liam and drunk Liam and Liam at midnight and Liam sweating and Liam shivering and Liam, Liam,_ Liam _for three whole years_ )

  


Liam starts beatboxing to end the song and Zayn changes his mind. No, he can’t handle it, not the sweet and sour hints of his tongue, or the flashes of teeth biting his pink lips, or the muscles working in his jaw and throat, or how _happy_ he looks under the dirty fluorescent lights.

  


That feeling, the one he can’t quite describe, crawls down his throat. “Lou,” he groans, grabbing at his arms and smudging the _property of Styles and Horan_ scribbled along his veins, “do you remember when you made it your mission to corrupt Liam?”

  


He nods, and Zayn thinks about calling the three of them out on their matching grins when he remembers whining to Harry in their hotel bed and getting drunk with Niall while Danielle visited and climbing all over Louis to ignore Liam onstage, so he settles on—

  


“Well I regret _all your life decisions.”_

  


— and learning the way Liam’s body writhes from across a crowded room.

  


  


/ / /

  
  


They’re not graceful or even harmonic as they stumble into their hotel room and land on the big bed with tangled limbs and swollen lips. Zayn’s pictured _this_ —

  


(kissing the birthmark on his neck, pressing fingertip bruises into his hips, palming his erection and squeezing his arse and rubbing their cocks together until Liam’s _screaming_ in frustration)

  


— a thousand times over. He’s not over-thinking this, he _won’t_ , because Liam spent the whole car ride wriggling in his lap and singing ‘ _when I get you alone’_ all husky in his ear.

  


Liam’s straddling his thighs and he groans when Zayn clenches his hips and all kinds of desperate noises are lost in the space between their brushing lips.

  


“Hey,” Liam whispers as he presses their bare chests together, “this is maybe my favourite place in the world.”

  


He looks up for maybe the first time and beyond Liam and his fit body and bright eyes there’s a bottle of champagne on ice and rose petals beneath his shoulder blades and candles by the window and fruit platters and massage oils and a hot bath and—

  


“ _Liam_ ,” he groans, squirming until he glances at Zayn with dilated eyes.

  


He blushes furiously and shoves a handful of petals against Zayn’s cheek until he arches his neck. His teeth are a little harsher when he nibbles at the stretched tendons. “Shut it,” he scowls, circling his hips until Zayn grinds back. “I was nervous, okay, and I wanted it to be perfect. Today would have been _infinitely_ more romantic if you’d let me ask you out properly, you twat.”

  


He grins a little too bright and scratches his nails up his spine until Liam arches closer. “We’re having a bath afterwards and you’re eating all the grapes,” he says. Liam’s blush is just as persistent as the clench of his thighs, so he adds— “I’ve planned our first date a dozen times over.”

  


The lips on his jaw pause and resume a little softer. “Yeah?” he breathes, all romantic and happy.

  


He laughs. “It includes a musical and takeaway Chinese from that one place you love and cuddling on an afghan by the fireplace at my house.”

  


“Is there a first kiss on the doorstep?” Liam teases, fingering at the stars along his ribs while he kisses a response out of him.

  


He whispers ‘ _first blow job on the rug, actually’_ and the noise Liam makes in response is his favourite sound in the world. They struggle clumsily out of their jeans and the image of bare skin against the denim (‘ _commando, hey?’_ he laughs, and Liam just tugs lazily at his cock in response) makes him dizzy.

  


He dribbles oil over Liam’s fingers and spreads his legs to bracket hips and arches his spine, just like he planned whenever he pictured Liam’s cock brushing against his arse.

  


“I don’t need that,” Liam whispers. He blushes and presses their erections together to hide it. “I’m all prepared, just for you.”

  


He loses himself in the catch of Liam’s cock on his thigh and when he focuses, Liam’s looking a little shameless. “What?”

  


“You don’t want to fuck me?” Liam asks, all innocent and sweet and _desperate_ , like he knows how it sounds. He wriggles a hand between them and smears lube along Zayn’s hips, up his shaft, over the head until it drips onto his balls. “You don’t want to feel me shake inside before I come or beg _‘harder harder harder’_ or be the first to _ever_ do that? _I_ want all those things.”

  


Zayn groans ‘ _you’_ but it doesn’t come out like an accusation. Liam smiles and straddles his thighs and _grinds_ until Zayn automatically grabs a hip.

  


They’re a little bolder without their clothes, when it’s just them and skin and paint and sweat. Liam reaches behind and pulls a plug out of him — ‘ _he prepped for you he bought a toy for you this is all for you’_ — and Zayn traces a finger around the rim wet with slick until they both moan.

  


 He reaches for a condom but Liam slaps his hand away and pushes him against the pillows and seats himself on Zayn’s cock in one breath. The look on Liam’s face is resolute and happy and _hopeful_ and it makes Zayn want to devour him whole.

  


Liam presses his palms on his stomach and he’s so _still_ in comparison to Zayn, who drags his fingertips up his milky thighs, into his hips, down his spine to stroke at the rim of his stretched hole, and back up again.

  


The first thrust is just a slow roll of Liam’s hips but it’s enough to make Zayn’s eyes to roll back. Liam’s in control, he _is_ , but he looks so compliant and loose and vulnerable and it makes Zayn ache for a kiss.

  


He’s beautiful, just like this, Zayn thinks, with a slack jaw and involuntary smile and pretty pink cock smearing precome over his abs when it bounces against his skin. It – the sight, the sweet smile on his lips – makes him want to _touch_.

  


 ( _maybe circle a fist around the shaft and roll back the foreskin and brush his thumb over the head)_

  


Liam shakes his head. “No,” he laughs, breathless. He presses down with his hands and squeezes his thighs and starts riding him in earnest _(and, yes, this is what heaven feels like)_. It’s all friction and perfection and hot, hot breaths in a cold room. “I only need your cock.”

  


Liam rocks forward to kiss his neck and changes the angle and tightens all around Zayn when his cock brushes against his prostate. His hips lose all that perfect rhythm and he starts whispering ‘ _please please please’_ until Zayn grips his waist. He thrusts up until Liam’s words are incoherent and he wants (needs, adores) this pliant, happy Liam, who throws his head back and smiles at the city when Zayn moves just right.

  


Liam comes first, halfway through groaning Zayn’s name, and the lines of pearly white striping his stomach are enough to make Zayn a little desperate. He says something embarrassing and Liam licks it sweet off his lips and then he’s gone, gone, gone.

  


They kiss until they stop panting and start breathing. Zayn lifts him with quivering arms and settles him between the sheets, even when Liam makes a noise of displeasure at his tender fingers.

  


“I will sing our lyrics at you,” he threatens, “I _will_ take you any way you like.”

  


Liam laughs an ‘ _any_ where _you dolt’_ and he replies ‘ _that too’_ and kisses him silly to swallow up his reply.

  


  


/ / /

  
  


They don’t take a bath. Instead, they light a dozen candles and curl together under the blankets and pass the champagne bottle between them. There are kisses between truths and lyrics into the hollows of Zayn’s body, and the echo of ‘ _nowhere else in the world’_ feels like it means something special.

  


(it does—they just don’t know what, yet)

  


  


/ / /

  
  


Liam’s not curled around him when Zayn wakes up and there’s a heartbeat where his heart breaks. He blinks a little harder and burrows out of the heavy blankets and smiles when he sees him, perched on the footboard with a mug of coffee and undeniable affection in his eyes.

  


“Good morning,” Liam says, just audible over the sounds of the city below, and crawls forward on his knees to pepper kisses all over his jaw. There are the remnants of paint crusted across his arms and when Zayn tries to scratch it off, he leaves angry red marks to match the bruises on his hips.

  


He steals some of the coffee and Liam presses their lips together to chase the flavour. He manages to whisper ‘ _good morning’_ and _‘why are you dressed?’_ and _‘please please don’t stop smiling or grinding or sleeping in my bed’_ with Liam squirming in his lap and, really, he thinks he deserves an award for that.

  


There’s a huff of laughter against his lips when he voices the thought and Liam reluctantly curves away, pressing their tangled fingers up his shirt until Zayn’s thumb brushes against fresh saran wrap. “Please don’t panic,” he whispers, and Liam _fucking_ Payne has chosen this moment to revert to the embarrassed, blushing sixteen year old with big dreams and no confidence, “but yesterday – _you_ – I don’t want to forget how it felt.”

  


Zayn nudges the cotton up and his jaw aches from smiling so bright because that clumsy, bright red ‘Z’ from last night is _tattooed into his skin_ like a brand and a promise and a question, all at once.

  


He presses his fingers against the ink until Liam winces – _just to check_ – and kisses him hard, squeezing his arse until he balances on his knees and nudges his cock against Zayn’s lips. The cotton is stained with precome and Zayn mouths at his shaft through the material and waits for a moan to tug the sweatpants down to his thighs.

  


He scrapes his nails against the tattoo and sucks the head into his mouth and swallows him deep and works _so hard_ to make Liam whimper. Liam’s cock throbs in his mouth so he hollows his cheeks and says ‘ _you taste so fucking good, Li’_ whenever he pulls away.

  


Fingers bury in his hair and he remembers how vulnerable Liam was last night, all cautious and sweet, so he slacks his jaw and curls his tongue and wraps his spare arm around his thighs to nudge him forward.

  


There’s a moment of hesitation but Liam complies and presses a thumb to the edge of his swollen lips. He _strokes_ like this is something affectionate (and it might be) before fucking his mouth in earnest.

  


Liam is sweet in the way only he can be when grinding into his mouth. He hesitates and thrusts steadily and twists backwards to stroke Zayn’s cock and comes with a sigh that breaks him in two. His spine curls and he sloppily sucks the taste of his own come off Zayn’s lips, chases it on his tongue, licks it from his jaw. It’s unrelenting and Liam is ruthless until he’s arching off the headboard with wide eyes and lax kisses.

  


They curl together and Liam kisses his hand clean and Zayn wants that bitter taste on his tongue for the rest of the week. “No sleeping,” he mumbles, muffling his words against Liam’s sweaty shoulder. “Collarbone tattoos hurt and I want _you_ stained into my skin.”

  


Liam doesn’t say anything until they arrive at the tattoo studio an hour later. Then, he presses a smile into Zayn’s hair and whispers ‘ _oh, darling’_ until they’re both dizzy off this new feeling crawling through their bloodstreams.

  
  


/ / /

  
  


(days, weeks, months later, they return to the warehouse and the moss in Liam’s scrawl reads ‘ _get out of my head, Zayn Malik’._

  


He sings ‘ _fall into my arms instead’_ because he’s sung that line in a thousand different venues to a million different people and _Liam_ has been his one constant.

  


Love, he thinks, hot and saccharine and familiar, is the only way to describe how he feels when Liam curls a little tighter and buries kisses between the tendons in his neck.

  


It’s not the first time he’s thought about it, but it’s the first time he says it, a quiet ‘ _I’m a little in love with you, darling’_ just before Liam sees his batsignal _._

  


Liam laughs it off and says _‘I love you too, you sentimental prick’_ and squeezes his waist _hard_ when he sees the sketch. It’s anti-climatic and later, in their hotel room, they whisper it a dozen times over when Zayn digs his nails into his (their) tattoo.

  


And _Liam_ and his smile and bedroom eyes and soft voice will always feel like an assault to him.) 


End file.
